Believe Me (I'm Lying)
by capsicleironman
Summary: An Easy A crossover, where the rumors of Tony Stark's promiscuity have been greatly exaggerated, and Steve Rogers just wants that kiss.
1. Chapter 1

Tony Stark would officially like to announce that the rumors of his promiscuity were greatly exaggerated. Look, it's not like he's claiming to be a virgin here—that drunken night in ninth grade at the McAllister's party did, in fact, happen, but he's sticking with 'no comment' for the time being. Point is, word travels fast in high school, and things weren't always this way.

From day one, Tony had stuck out in his eleventh grade class like a ten story building in an empty lot. Maybe it was because he owned most of the ten story buildings in the city—or at least his father did—or because his father's company had a headquarters worth a couple hundredstories with Tony's last name plastered across all four sides in lettering so big, aliens could see it from space. Whatever it was, anonymity was not his friend, and, okay, for a while, it had been great; every girl knew his name, every guy wanted his phone number, and there was no party in the city he ever needed an invite for. And if this also meant that paparazzi were beating down his door every night or attempting to sneak onto campus through the gym entrance, well, that came with the territory of being a multi billion-dollar businessman's son and a boy genius. But the thing was, the whole school—the whole world—might know Tony's name, but not a single one of them knew Tony.

Rationally, he knew it was a bit ridiculous to be hung up on such a simple little detail, conceited even, but, hey, he'd never claimed to be modest. There was a whole lot of buzz about having Tony Stark going to your school, or to have Tony Stark in your Math class, or to have a picture of Tony Stark puking his guts out at your party. His name was legend, his name was fame, but all this 'knowing about him' stuff sort of fell out the window once he'd made his appearance.

You see, Tony's day generally went like this: after he left his empty house, he'd drive the car he'd restored to school, and this didn't get much attention because (a) despite being an expensive project, it was technically an old crappy car and (b) there were a lot of old crappy cars in a school parking lot; he'd then walk to class and be run into by at least five different jocks who would send his papers flying across the hall, and, not bothering to look back to see who he was (because from anyone's peripheral vision, he was just another short, useless nerd wasn't he?), they'd run off without stopping to help; then, should a weekend party roll around, he'd arrive, take pictures with the hosts, talk to absolutely no one, get plastered, and then throw up in the back yard and walk home.

Google could tell you every last detail of Tony's existence, so, naturally, no one bothered to ask. In fact, Google would probably direct you to Stark tower and leave him well enough alone.

So, that was Tony's life—famous invisibility—until one day, it all changed because of a simple, stupid little lie.

It all started when Clint invited Tony to his archery tournament on a weekend where Tony had very serious plans to lay in bed and do nothing for 48 hours or build a new energy source—whichever really caught his interest when the time came. It wasn't as though he didn't want to support Clint—he did, really—but archery tournaments were weird. First of all, the fact that they even still existed in the twenty-first century when there were guns and targeting missiles was just plain nostalgia, if you asked him; second, they were boring. You'd wait around all day, watching a bunch of people shoot an arrow at a bullseye, waiting to cheer on your friend, only to have his turn go by in the ten second break you took to eat a handful of popcorn. Tony—the supportive, amazing best friend that he was—had been dragged to enough of these events to know what to expect, and he could just as easily cheer over the phone while he got some work done (or finished off a pizza to his head).

So he'd lied. Just a little white lie—no big deal—and claimed he had a date with a woman named Meredith McCall who attended a local City College (he had, in fact, met this exact woman at the hardware store last week; they'd hit it off pretty well, but he was underage, she was busy, and, anyway, he wasn't looking for a date; all in all, it was only a teeny tiny partial little lie).

Believe it or not, however, Clint was not exactly overjoyed at the news. "Meredith is not a sexy name. Meredith is the name of a librarian, and unless she turns out to be secretly sexy when she takes off her glasses and lets down her hair and fucks you sideways, it's not a name you want to be yelling out during climax—"

Tony clapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late; their biology teacher, Dr. Banner, had walked by just in time to overhear and now stopped in his tracks. "By which, I assume you mean…?" he said.

"The stable and self perpetuating end stage of the evolution of a plant community. Why, what were you thinking?" Tony replied immediately, and he could have sworn he saw the doctor smile. If only just a little.

Dr. Banner had, well, a bit of a reputation at their school. Nine times out of ten, he was the sort of teacher whose class you'd dream to be a part of; he was cool, fun, easy going, and he always came up with the best experiments. There wasn't a second of his class that was boring—quiet and meditative at times—but never boring. But Dr. Banner, for all his merit, also had a notorious temper; get on his bad side, and you'd find yourself in the principal's office before you could even think to say you were sorry. All in all, he was Tony's favorite teacher in the school, hands down.

"Same," Bruce replied, "But I don't say it out loud. You know, someone could get the wrong idea. Innuendo is attached to everything you say."

Clint, in a classic display of dramatics, clapped a hand to his heart. "Innuendo? Whatever do you mean?"

Tony slapped him across the shoulder.

Bruce, still hiding that smile Tony would have sworn on his life was swimming just under the surface, told them simply to 'hit the books' then walked away.

The interruption was affective in derailing Clint for all of about five seconds before he'd jumped back onto the topic of Meredith and Tony's way-too-busy-for-archery schedule. "Come on. Come onnn. I'm going to win this year. I've been practicing all summer," he begged and he was close—so close—to actually making Tony feel guilty enough to give in, but at the last second, he broke through the act with a shit-eating grin and said, "And I need someone to distract this girl that's been following me around and wants to come 'support me'. You might like her. She's almost as crazy as you are."

Tony refused to talk to Clint for the rest of the day.

As predicted, Tony spent the weekend in mild states of productivity with long stretches of sloth-like entertainment in between. On Saturday, he spent an hour building a robot that could bring him soda from the fridge, and for the rest of the day, he'd sat on the couch and had the bot bring him one Coke after another while he watched a Star Wars marathon on TV. Sunday, he updated the bot to use the microwave, therefore single-handedly perfecting a couch potato slave that provided him with Bagle Bites and Hot Pockets through a long day of the bridal channel (there were no witnesses. It never happened. Shut up).

By Monday morning, however, Clint was back at his side and pestering him for details over his 'romantic weekend date.' Tony had had quite an intimate time with his pizza (the cheese at that place on the corner was to die for), but as this just wasn't the sort of story Clint was expecting, he'd had to be creative.

"Oh, she was great," he'd said, nodding and grinning—a technique he'd perfected after hundreds of charity dinners, parties, and other various public appearances that his parents actually tolerated him for. "Instant connection."

"Are you going to see her again?" Clint asked.

"Nah. We had a good weekend, why ruin it by—"

Before Tony could finish his sentence, Clint had stopped in his tracks and stilled Tony with one hand to his chest. "You spent the whole weekend together?" His eyes gleamed something dangerous, and he wiggled an eyebrow. "The whole weekend? Just the two of you?"

Tony thought of his robot with a Mountain Dew in his claw and a strip of cheese falling down his face and into his lap. He then imagined locking himself away in his bedroom with a beautiful woman for the weekend. It wasn't hard to choose the more "desirable" image.

"Yeah," he said, and shrugged, real casual, like 'no big deal, I had crazy monkey sex with my college fling all weekend long; how was the tournament, Big Guy?'

Clint looked one word away from an aneurism. "The whole weekend? You dog! You might just live up to your reputation after all," he said, shoving Tony in the shoulder so hard he actually stumbled back a step before regaining his balance.

Before Tony could say another word—and oh, he had some words ready, alright, dozens of them, hundreds of them, actually, because once the idea had been lit in his brain, he couldn't stop, the need to brag and boast and tell Clint all about his hypothetically amazing weekend nearly overwhelming (and maybe his social life had become so pathetic he needed fake girlfriends to make up for it, but he was pointedly not thinking about that)—Steve Rogers passed by them in the hall.

Steve was your average jock—blue eyes, blonde hair, bulging muscles, and a body the shape of an upside down triangle with unreal proportions—except that there was nothing average about him. Because Steve was kind where the 'average' jocks of their class were rude and obnoxious; Steve was gentle where they were brutish. And when Steve bumped into him before class, he apologized a thousand times over and picked up every last paper he'd made Tony drop.

Tony had had his first real interaction with Steve at a party in the eighth grade. The two had somehow gotten caught up in a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven and been locked in a bedroom alone together; AKA, the night of Tony's dreams—the chance to finally, finally, kiss the boy he'd had a crush on for years; for Steve, it had been nothing but nerves.

Tony couldn't exactly blame him. He'd taken his time growing into his own. They both had, really. Back in middle school, Tony had been even more nerdy than he was now and with less muscle, messier hair, and not enough practice covering up his bruises with make-up (Pepper Potts, a girl he worked with at the school paper, had taught him that in the ninth grade). Steve, for all his endless good looks, had been at least a foot shorter, a couple dozen pounds lighter, and carried an inhaler everywhere he went.

Just a couple of lost kids, they'd sat on the bed of whosever party they were at, and simply stared at each other as the clock winded down.

"214 seconds left," Tony had said, checking his watch for the time.

Steve blinked. "How do you do that? I mean, how do you do math so fast? And sound like a grown up?"

Tony remembered smiling at the sincerity of the question. Steve's tone had been purely curious, impressed even—not teasing. Still too young to let the incessant bullying he'd endured thus far simply roll off his shoulders, Tony had needed that reassurance. He didn't tell Steve then that the reason he was so good at math was because he had to be, because if he slipped up, if he fell behind, if he wasn't smart enough, his father would hate him even more than he already did. He didn't tell him that he sounded like a grown up because at thirteen years old, he already was. That he had to be. Masquerading in expensive suits and an IQ too high for his own good, he played the role just the way his father wanted, and hated every second of it.

"Don't worry," he'd said. "I'm not as smart as I think I am."

Steve had shaken his head. "No. I think you're smarter."

They hadn't kissed that night; Steve hadn't been ready. But Tony had been dreaming about it ever since.

Now, seventeen years old, Tony was more of a kid than he ever was—lost and confused with no idea where he belonged, sounding like your average teenage sob story: who am I? What's my purpose in this vast universe, will I ever know? Problem was, Tony did; his purpose had been set out for him before he was ever born.

As he passed by, Steve caught Tony's eye and smiled, and, not for the first time, Tony wished for his grand purpose in the universe to be that and that alone: making Steve Rogers smile at him every day for the rest of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony had hated a lot of people in his life (the stalkers, the ex-girlfriends, and don't even get him started on his father), but he'd never quite hated anyone with the same sort of passion in which he hated Tiberius Stone. Frighteningly smart and unbelievingly cunning, Tiberius was a worthy adversary in every way. But while Tony appreciated good competition, Tiberius had one tiny little flaw: he was pure evil. The two had been in all the same classes since kindergarden, and Tiberius had tried his very best to make each and every moment a living hell for Tony. Tony had a running bet going with Clint that under all that blond hair, Tiberius was hiding demonic horns, but all he'd actually seen so far were several disapproving stairs across the classroom.

In some way or another, Tiberius was always the first to get the news. Whether it was a picture message gone viral of Tony passed out on some jackass jock's couch, or a newspaper article on his latest DUI, Tiberius always knew, and he never could keep his opinions to himself. Class president, junior event coordinator, and yearbook editor, he'd made it his life goal to keep the 'public' aware of Tony's miscreant behavior and to always have at least two stupid pictures of him in the yearbook (last year, there had been a picture of him getting pantsed at the homecoming dance; he would never go again). Any chance Tony ever had of being popular (because hello, good-looking inheriting billionaire here) was instantly and forever thwarted by Tiberius' long list of contacts and his endless quest for 'high school hierarchy justice.'

By that afternoon, Tiberius had all the dirt he needed to spin the story of Tony's life into his twisted little web, and unfortunately, Tony was all too used to it. Based on what he could only assume was the very lie he'd told Clint about his sex-filled weekend (something someone in that very busy hall had undoubtedly overheard), Tiberius had began to pass along the rumor that Tony had hired a live-in prostitute because that was the only way he could ever get laid (because his good looks and overflowing bank account couldn't possibly land him a date. Please note the sarcasm. Right there, about the not dating thing…oh, never mind, who was he kidding? He hadn't had a date in months).

"Pathetic, isn't he?" Tony overheard Tiberius saying as they both took their seats in Dr. Banner's fourth period class.

"At least I'm having sex, fucker. Oh, I'm sorry, that'd be the incorrect term, wouldn't it? Let me know how the blue balls are coming along," Tony snapped before he could even think to stop himself. Unfortunately, at that very moment, Dr. Banner called the class to order and every one—Banner included—heard his little outburst. All in all, not his strongest moment, and thanks to a impromptu trip to the Principal's office, he never did get to find out what happened when you mix gummy bears, baking soda, and vinegar.

Principal Fury's office was at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway, the sort of construction you just knew was built that way on purpose because walking down it felt like walking the road to your own execution. As Tony approached, a tall gangly kid with a spider on his backpack walked out carrying a tissue under his still bleeding nose.

"If you won't tell me who did it, I can't help you, but try and work it out, alright?" Fury was saying, patting the boy awkwardly on the shoulder. As the kid—Peter Parker, if Tony remembered correctly from yearbook—passed by, he caught Tony's eye then quickly looked back at the floor, a dark blush creeping up the back of his neck.

"Stark," Fury barked, and Tony, snapping out of his daze, walked into the office that would surely be the setting of his death.

Fury contemplated the slip in front of him that detailed Tony's "inappropriate behavior." "Bad words? You're up here, ruining my lunch time because you had to go and use a bad word? This is a school, Stark. Public school. This isn't one of those progressive prep institutes where kids use their teachers first names and students are partners in learning and there's a fundraising auction at the end of the year where the more creative parents put on musical skits about the community garden! This is public school. If I can keep the girls off the pole, and the boys off the pipe, I get a raise. I don't have time for this. Bad words. Really? Don't let me see your face up here again, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Tony said, biting down the urge to salute the man. "I mean, I think so; I got a little lost in the middle there, but you brought it back around—"

"Detention, after school tomorrow," Fury cut him off and handed him a white slip of paper. "Now out."

Tony attempted a smile and then left in a rush when it did nothing to calm Fury's rage.

He was relatively used to getting in trouble, but before that day, it had always been more of a 'I can't stop breaking the law' sort of problem than anything else. Underage drinking was a big fat check on his personal record, but detention was a whole new ball game. Sarcastic and reckless as he might be in his personal life, school was something Tony understood, something he excelled at. He could complete a test in his sleep and still ace it, and he'd pretty much outsmarted all his teachers four years ago. As unpopular as he was, school was his playground, all up until the moment it turned into a prison.

By the time Tony left Fury's office, Dr. Banner's class had ended and the school day had come to a close. As Tony crossed the quad and headed toward the parking lot, a voice snuck up beside him. "Hi, Tony."

Steve kept up with Tony's pace, smiling brightly, with the school mascot's head—big woodchuck teeth and all—tucked under his arm. Steve still wore the rest of the costume, it's fat woodchuck body surrounding his own fit figure, a ratty old school t-shirt stretched over the creature's fur.

"The illusion is shattered!" Tony exclaimed with a look of mock surprise. "That's exactly why they'd put you in the gas chamber at Disney World if you took off your head. I'm devastated, truly. The games just won't be the same from here on out. I might have to stop going."

"You're talking about Disneyland. Disney World just puts you in solitary confinement for ten years," Steve said, and if it wasn't for that slight quirk of his lips, Tony just might have thought he was serious. "So I heard you had a giant orgy last weekend," Steve continued. "With Paris Hilton, all of the Kardashians and the Olson Twins. Sounds like a busy couple of days. Think you'll have time to go to Thor Odinson's party this weekend?"

Tony opened his mouth then promptly closed it again, unable to think of a single rational response. Steve laughed, and the sound would have reminded Tony of church bells and angels singing if it hadn't sent all his thoughts (and blood) racing southwards.

"See you around, Tony," Steve said, and just like that, he was gone, crossing the parking lot in the opposite direction of Tony's car. Tony seriously contemplated grand theft auto—maybe there was a nice car parked right next to Steve's where they could talk for hours and make out a little on the hood of Steve's hypothetical Mercedes (because Tony knew for a fact he had a beat up old van that he shared with his mom). Before he could act on this genius impulse, however, Clint called out his name from across the lot.

The archer was standing by the passenger door of Tony's car, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Tony liked to think that Clint stuck around after school so as to have a few extra minutes in Tony's excellent and stimulating company, but Clint also didn't have a car. Or a bus pass.

"Tell me you've heard. You've heard, right?" he asked once Tony was within earshot.

"Heard what?"

"That you're now the most popular kid in school," Clint said as though it was obvious. "Tiberius' plan backfired big time. His prostitute story matured into an orgy story, and the orgy turned into you sleeping with all twelve of last years Maxim cover models, and now literally every person I've seen today has asked me if I made out with Angelina Jolie at your last party."

Once more, Tony opened his mouth to counter this ridiculous rumor when the image of his new bot popped into his head, claw drooping in shame when they'd run out of soda. Yeah, this story was better, and Angelina was hot. Really hot.

"Yup," he said, sliding into his car in one smooth motion that would have made James Bond proud. "That's exactly what happened."

As Tony started up the engine and drove out of the school parking lot, Clint yelled, at the top of his lungs out the window, "We're popular!"

That night, Tony had dinner at Pepper's house. Her parents were cooking macaroni and cheese, spaghetti, and garlic bread in some sort of carb overload spectacular, and as Tony's own parents were out of town on a business trip, he wouldn't be missed (that is, his father was on a business trip; his mother, no doubt, was entertaining his father's drunken friends and thanking God for her husband's credit card—the one thing that didn't make her whole life a waste).

'Eccentric' never could quite sum up Mr. and Mrs. Potts, but in all the years he'd known them, it was the closest Tony had ever gotten. They weren't hippies, and they didn't run around the house naked or sing show tunes as they cooked or anything, but they didn't stop smiling either, and, despite being married for decades, they still kissed every chance they could get. Tony couldn't remember ever seeing his parents kiss unless you counted in their wedding picture, and he'd certainly never seen them look so happy in each other's company.

Pepper's brother, Rhodey, was there as well, and while the Potts cooked and Pepper finished her homework, he and Tony played a racing game on the X-Box Tony had bought for them last Christmas (Pepper claimed all his gifts were all just intruments for his own amusement, but Rhodey played it too, so that made it valid and thoughtful, okay?)

Tony won by a millisecond, and may or may not have knocked Rhodey's controller out of his hand at the last lap.

"You're cheating, and I give up," Rhodey said, throwing down his controller.

"The Potts weren't made for speed, Sweetie. We're slow but steady people. Always paying attention to the details," said Mrs. Potts from the kitchen. She smiled at her son over the top of an oversized mixing bowl.

"What does that matter?" Rhodey asked. "I'm adopted."

There was a loud clatter of metal on linoleum as Mr. Potts dropped the spoon he was holding and slammed his fist against the refrigerator. "Who told you?" he exclaimed, and the whole house exploded into laughter.

Just as dinner was served—two heaping piles of noodles stacked on a couple pieces of bread for all but Pepper, who, instead, chose a salad and warned them all of an impending heart attack—Tony's phone buzzed in his pocket.

Steve: The football team saw me with my head off. I think I traumatized them for life.

Tony laughed through a mouthful of spaghetti. He waited a full minute (he counted off the seconds in his head) so as not to seem overly eager before he replied.

Tony: You're a life ruiner, Rogers. What's next, telling kids Santa isn't real?

Steve: He isn't? Well I have a lot of letters addressed to the North Pole I need to retract…

Tony snorted into his plate.

"Who are you talking to, Sweetie?" asked Mrs. Potts. "Is it an admirer? Honey, I think it's an admirer." She smiled knowingly at her husband.

Tony most certainly did not blush.


	3. Chapter 3

Believe it or not, detention was not the most intellectually stimulating activity Tony had ever experienced. In fact, he was 99% sure that their 'punishment' was breaking at least a dozen child labor laws. Pushing a mop around would never be his idea of fun, but pushing a mop around a sweaty high school gym was damn near torture. He was sure that at the "prep schools" Fury so despised, they had interesting and educational detention possibilities—like extra lectures, or walking out to your death in the Forbidden Forest to look for Unicorn blood or something worth his time.

Across the gym, Peter Parker leaned against his own mop, looking at a spot on the floor like he just couldn't believe that this was his life, and the stain was entirely to blame (it might have been; Tony could have sworn that was the exact spot Tiberius stood in gym class, and the kid sweated hell fire). "I can't believe I get beat up, and I get detention. This has got to be illegal."

"Probably," Tony agreed. "But Fury's like a ship captain or something. He could marry you on international waters. Laws don't apply to him."

Peter raised an eyebrow but seemed to decide against arguing with Tony; generally a good course of action, as Tony would, without a doubt, argue his stupid and incorrect points to the death. "Life is great, isn't it?" Peter said instead. "This really going according to plan. I love detention."

Won over by the sophomore's sarcasm and self-deprecating smile, Tony decided once and for all that Peter Parker might just be worth his time. "So what's your problem?" he asked. "You had enough blood escaping your nose yesterday to feed a pack of vampires. Who'd you piss off?"

"Everyone. The universe, I guess," Peter said, shrugging. He pulled his mop from the dirty bucket of water beside him and pushed it around the floor a bit before giving up and dropping it entirely. He took a seat on the bleachers then looked back at Tony. "I know all about you. You really have a party with Justin Timberlake last weekend?"

Tony blinked, marveling silently at the extents to which his classmates would go to spread a good rumor. He had his mouth open, ready to agree when he caught sight of the bruise on Peter's left cheek, just barely peeking out from beneath his hairline. "No," he said truthfully. The rumors did have quite a ring to them, and he wouldn't lie and pretend he hated the sudden burst of popularity, but what was the point in bragging to a kid that had already hit rock bottom? "Rumor."

Peter whistled, seemingly impressed despite the truth of the situation. Funny. "Well, I wish people would spread rumors like that about me," he said.

Tony pushed his mop back into its appropriate bucket and shrugged. "Well then you better give them something to talk about."

The next day, as he and Clint were lounging around on his car (a normal after school activity, what with them both despising their homes and having no desire to return to them or to do something else equally horrible like homework), Tony got a call from Parker—who, for the record, he couldn't even remember giving his number to, let alone becoming 'let's talk after school' sort of friends.

"You've reached the live voicemail of Tony Stark. He's not here right now, but if you leave him a message, he probably won't call you back," Tony said into the phone. Clint rolled his eyes.

"If you didn't want to talk, why did you even answer it?" he asked.

Peter, obviously choosing to ignore Tony's genius, if ill-planned, message, spoke over the both of them, voice loud despite a quiver of fear. "Who's there?" he asked.

"Clint Barton," Tony said even as Clint hissed and gestured a hundred different ways not to tell anyone of his existence (he liked to believe he was a spy. And invisible. And a ninja. Tony was loosing track. And also he really didn't care). "The one that shoots spit balls during assemblies. Perpetually angry. Terrible hair." Clint slapped him upside the head for his last comment, but it was totally worth it.

Tony was pretty sure Peter laughed, but it was hard to tell what exactly was going on on the other end, as the kid was still having trouble speaking up. Mostly, Tony heard a whole lot of "umm blah blah umm er um" until Peter got around to his point and finally began to speak clearly. "Do you want to go out with me?" he asked.

Tony choked on his own tongue. "What? No."

Peter made a pained sort of sound. "Please, I'm desperate," he said. "It doesn't have to be a real date. It doesn't have to even be a date. If you just told people we had sex—"

"Excuse me?" Tony batted Clint away as he attempted to listen in on the conversation.

"It worked for you!" Peter continued. "Last week, no one even noticed you—"

"Thanks," Tony said dryly.

"That's not what I meant. I mean," Peter paused—like really paused for so long Tony checked his phone three different times to see if he'd hung up sort of paused. "I can't make it through high school like this. "You're cool now. And I'm not exactly close to getting a date, but if I said I'd been with you, that'd put me on the level of-of Hollywood. They already think you've slept with everyone, what difference would it make to you to add a nerdy little kid to the list?"

Tony had to admit that Peter had a point. With no prompting of his own, his 'list' was quickly skyrocketing—famous actresses and actors, models and musicians, and all of it because Tony was a Stark. Because Tony was a spoiled rich kid who got exactly what he wanted and more than he needed, and he lived with the world at his feet. It was a nice image, he supposed, and it was better than getting pushed into a locker every day simply because he was shorter and younger than the rest of his peers, but it was as fake as his Wikipedia page. Really, what was another name on his imaginary résumé?

"Fine," he said into the phone. "But I don't do anything half-assed. Thor Odinson's having a party this weekend. We'll go together. We'll make a show out of it. Whatever. But I want a good picture in the yearbook this year."

"You can have the cover," Peter said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. See you there. Don't be late." Tony hung up, tossed his phone into Clint's lap, then leaned back against the hood of the car, and buried his face in his hands. "I am so screwed."

Thor Odinson was foreign, apparently, and, apparently, in whatever land he hailed from, it was perfectly acceptable to have enormous house parties every Friday night simply because you could. With a pool the size of Texas, and a house almost as big as Tony's, his parties were always an instant hit—crowded from corner to corner, until Tony was a second away from bursting out into a chorus of School House Rock's "Elbow Room" just to get into the yard. Thor was unbelievably popular, probably because of these parties, but also, Tony suspected, because he had good hair, more muscles than God, and was impossible to hate what with his good natured attitude and easy sense of humor.

Thor was not the problem. The problem was the hoards of drunken jocks throwing each other (and innocent bystanders) into the pool, and the drunken girls falling over every poor bastard that dared to come late. By the time Tony and Peter arrived, the party was already in full swing, and Tony had polished off half a bottle of his father's best scotch. Peter, he was relatively sure, was sober, but he still staggered into the house like he owned the place, all shaking legs and cocky grins—the perfect, drunken show.

Tony found Thor first and dragged Peter along with him until the two were bumping hips for all to see. Thor gave them nothing but a smile, but it was all they needed; they'd created their audience.

Tony grabbed Peter's arm and dragged him to the bedroom with all the enthusiasm of a man desperate to get in his date's pants, and the crowd followed. The second Tony closed the door behind them, he could hear the multitudes gathering around the door, whispering in hushed tones and waiting for the show to begin.

Tony had made the rules explicitly clear: as he thought of Peter as nothing more than a cute younger kid who he had possibly paternal protective instincts for, there would be no touching. No kissing. No groping. And certainly no sex. The fact that Tony could relay these warnings while drunk was impressive even to him, but, then again, this wasn't exactly his first rodeo (man, that phrase needed to be updated; who went to the rodeo anymore?). Staggering, he made his way to the bed and plopped down, staring up at the ceiling and starting to moan aloud.

Peter watched him for a moment, struggling not to laugh, before he took his place on the bed and began jumping up and down, moaning soft "oh yeah, oh yeah"s until his cheeks burned red from the embarrassment.

Tony stifled his laughter in his fist. "Don't stop, oh yeah!" he cried.

Their night of passion lasted an entire five minutes in all, climaxing with Tony punching Peter in the nuts and watching as he moaned and groaned and grasped his crotch in a ball of pain on the floor. Once he'd collected himself, the two walked out of the room and into a quickly scattering crowd of listeners.

As Tony excused himself from the group, tripping over his own feet and squinting to see straight, he heard a boy he recognized from the football team clap Peter on the shoulder and say with envy, "I can't believe you hit that."

That. Tony let the word roll around on his tongue, let it seep into his veins and fill the holes in his heart where he'd once let hope blossom. All the rumors in the school and front page stories in the world wouldn't change who he was—a name. A brand. A product.

In his haste to leave the party, Tony bumped into something very tall and very solid; a something that turned out to be none other than Steve Rogers-the walking wall of muscle himself.

"So you did find time in your bustling schedule to come. It's good to see you," he said, and Tony really wished he could see straight, because he was 99% sure Steve was smiling at him and it was a sight he'd never wanted to miss. Thanks a lot, blurry drunk vision. Steve Smiles were like little miracles wrapped up in one big Steve bow, like puppies and rainbows all combined—no, like puppies on rainbows, and sunshine too. Bright and shining and, yeah, maybe he should stop drinking.

"Uh-hu," he mumbled, blinking. Real classy, Stark, he thought, now he's really going to think you're an idiot. "And you're here."

Steve—the kind gentleman that he was—graciously refrained from saying "duh," though it was currently the only thing playing through Tony's head. "I am," he said. Was he smiling again? Tony thought he might be. He hoped so anyway. "Are you alright?"

Tony nodded. Behind Steve's back, two jocks were dry humping the air; they caught Tony's eye and laughed. It wasn't hard to guess who the message was directed to, or what about. "I'm going to go," he said.

Steve frowned and opened his mouth—probably to tease him about his 'night's activities' too, Tony figured—but Tony was already pushing past him and heading out the door.

By the time Tony woke up the next morning, nearly all of the previous night had disappeared from his memory—just another drunken haze to add to the blurry chapters of his life. Because that was what Tony did best; he erased his life one night at a time—erased the truth with sarcasm, erased feelings with all his hardened defenses, erased his experiences with an expensive drink. As if that was not enough, it seemed he could now add whoring to the list—fundamentally erasing any chance at a relationship with a thousand fake ones.

His phone rang nonstop for the rest of the day—sleazy people wanting a sleazy night, and not-so-sleazy people wanting a pretend night because Peter Parker couldn't keep his mouth shut within his group of friends.

The weekend came and went, and by Monday, Tony had over fifty offers for fake conquests—stuffed in his locker or whispered to him in class, passed over note, or texted during lunch.

A week ago, Tony had been known only for his name, for his money, and his father, and his fame. By fourth period, Tony was known only for his body—who he'd slept with, who he might sleep with next, and who could convince him to (fake) sleep with them too.

Well, Tony figured, at least this body was his, and anything was a step up from being known for his father.

He was still just a name though.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter Parker was a genius. Actually, he probably was; though the spider-obsessed teenager laid pretty low when it came to socializing and was involved in few school activities beside yearbook, Tony had seen a few of his projects in their shared Physics class last year, and Peter had had the second best catapult in the class (Tony's being the first; he launched his crumpled paper ball ammo clear out the door, thank you very much). With an eye for invention and a keen sense of observation, the kid was going places, Tony had no doubt. But if his scientific career ever failed, he'd also make an excellent pimp.

After that night at the party, Tony was getting offers left and right for pretend conquests. It seemed the school had divided into three groups: those who thought Tony was sleeping with everyone, those who knew he was sleeping with no one and wanted in on the pretend action in their quest for popularity, and Tony—stuck in the middle of it all with no incentive to say yes, and yet no reason to say no. Several potential "clients" had offered to pay him, but as Tony had more money than God, it hardly mattered. In the end, Tony said yes simply because he was bored—because any press was good press and because he was tired of being invisible. He spent his days at home walking the empty halls, yelling at the top of his lungs just to listen to his own voice echo off the walls; he didn't need a repeat at school. As long as he said yes, he had someone to talk to, someone who needed him, someone who cared even if their affections only lasted several imaginary minutes at best.

On Tuesday, Tony agreed to hypothetically give a blowjob to an overweight and highly unpopular kid behind the bleachers. On Wednesday, he pretended to take a girl's virginity in his car, and then her best friend's later that night. On Thursday, after his impromptu party with Robert Downey Jr. that he was 99% sure never happened but heard all about in homeroom, he slept with the president of Mathletes, and then a good half of the debate team. On Friday, he developed Chlamydia. All in all, his imaginary week was endlessly full, while his literal week considered of little more than dirty looks form the Celibacy club, and afternoons spent tinkering on his new bot.

By next Monday, his fake but still very annoying Chlamydia had apparently disappeared, and he spent the morning not in English class where he was supposed to be, but in Dr. Banner's office, tapping away at the arms of his chair and fidgeting as he waited for the axe to come down. Tony had seen many sides of Dr. Banner, even been witness to his legendary 'freak out's on several occasions, but he'd yet to be the source of one; Tony had never considered himself much of a teacher's pet (more like a teacher's worst nightmare, or at least the sort of pet that peed in your sock drawer and then chewed up all your socks), but he'd really hoped to stay in Banner's good books a while longer. The doctor was one of the few people that actually saw Tony when he walked down the hall—not dollar signs in his eyes or popularity on his ass (teachers, luckily, tended only to see the first).

"What can I do for you, teach? Or should I call you professor? Or doctor? Captain? Oh, Captain, my Captain—" Tony began, his tongue taking over where his brain lagged—a groomed defense mechanism he'd developed over the years when it came to social interactions.

Bruce did not even try to hide the obvious roll of his eyes. "I've heard some rumors. What's going on? You haven't turned in you robot for the competition."

Tony frowned. Right. That.

The robot competition was held locally every year—kids in the district who came together to race or compete with their hand crafted robots. Most were matchboxes on wheels or poorly altered toy cars, but the best went on to the statewide competition, and then nationals. Tony had won (not to mention qualified for) the senior division since he was in the sixth grade.

His beer snatching, pizza serving, soda spilling robot who he'd recently dubbed Dum-E would easily qualify—easily win, if he was being honest, and, really, it was a tragedy that such a waste of space and technology could be better than all the other inventions of his generation. But Dum-E was also explicitly his, and the idea of sending him off to arm—rather claw—wrestle with an inferior hunk of metal made Tony cringe. Anyway, he'd been far too busy with his booming fake-sex business to think twice about the competition.

Sitting before Bruce now, Tony weighed the growing disappointment in his teacher's eyes with the hope that had lingered there just weeks before. Tony had been the subject of many stares in his life—those of anger, lust, and frustration, especially frustration (just ask Pepper)—but there was none he was more accustomed to than that patented look of disappointment that his father wore so well, a look he'd hope to never see upon Dr. Banner's face. He shrugged, slouching back in his chair so as to say, with his posture alone, I don't give a damn, what competition, who cares if I've let you down, you're not my father, I don't need you, please, please don't give up on me yet. "I'm working on it. Since when is it your job to check up on me? I thought teachers were supposed to stay out of high school drama."

Bruce shrugged. "Teachers have ears too. I can't help what I hear in the halls. Just be careful, alright? Make sure you know what you're doing."

Tony saluted him, grinned—I don't want this, I don't know what I'm doing, please, please help me, please see through this mask because I don't know how to take it off and I can't do this anymore—then jumped to his feet. "Can I go?"

Bruce nodded and gestured toward the door.

Out in the hall, Tony was greeted with what had become his new ritual. His day, which had changed monumentally in the last couple of weeks, now went like this: he arrived at school in his newly restored car and, as he stepped out, some jackass made humping motions at him from across the parking lot and another came whispering in his ear, voice dripping with hateful sarcasm and distain: "When's my turn? Don't I get a ride too, Stark?" until Tony punched him in the gut and found himself ten seconds away from getting the shit beat out of him until someone broke up the fight (and someone—Steve often—always did); then, in the halls, he was approached by several different people on the lower levels of the teenage social hierarchy who promised him good parking spots and gift cards and perks at the local ice-cream payroll (whoop-de-doo) if he pretended to sleep with them; and, finally, he endured several more hours of wolf whistles, crude gestures, and just enough awe, respect, and requests for never-ending friendship that it made all the rest somehow worth it.

But that Monday, something funny happened to stir up his usual routine. Justin Hammer, a greasy, generally pretty sleazy guy from Tony's third period, approached him with a wide grin and an outstretched hand. The handshake lasted ten seconds, at least, too long, but Hammer never stopped smiling the entire time, and though it was a bit creepy, Tony had to give him credit for his enthusiasm. "How you doing?" he asked.

"I'm good. I'm really good, actually. Last night, I slept on a bed of money. Literally. I sewed it together myself with hundred dollar bills, and this morning, I brushed my teeth with a gold toothbrush and then slept with the entire cast of Full House. Was it a little kinky and sort of weird? Sure. But who doesn't want to do Uncle Jesse?" Tony shrugged and Justin—bless him—actually nodded in some attempt at agreement. Maybe he'd never learned the graceful art of sarcasm, or, perhaps, Tony was finally blurring the lines between fantasy and reality a little more than he'd realized if he could now make a rumor so ridiculous actually sound plausible (then again, half the school thought he was sleeping with Hollywood's A list one name at a time, and that was far harder to believe).

"Do you want to go out with me?" Justin asked.

With his tongue, Tony poked at the inside of his cheek and looked his fellow student up and down—clearly expensive clothes poorly matched and pieced together with dirty dress shirts, thick rimmed glasses that Tony would have bet his fortune were not prescription, and hair slicker than his smile. "What'd you have in mind?" he asked.

Justin paused, seeming to consider his options before he said, finally, "Dinner at the lobster shack?"

"Make it the shawarma joint next door, and you got a deal."

* * *

Shawarma was not extremely popular in high school. More often than not, the little joint that sat two blocks from campus was empty but for one old lady who ate there every afternoon, and at least two couples. Tony had picked this particular restaurant because it was safe—no lingering eyes, no watching audience.

That night, Tony and Justin made up half of the 'couple' cliental, though Tony was still weary about this title, and even wearier of bumping into someone they knew. All during the drive over, he had tried to decipher why exactly he'd said yes. Justin was not his type—clearly—but in the last couple of weeks, Tony's classmates had worked harder trying to get into his hypothetical pants than to actually sleep with him, and he was beginning to feel a bit diseased.

The dinner wasn't fantastic—Justin talked a lot about his plans for the future and some technological projects that Tony found himself correcting at every turn (he never had known how to keep his mouth shut)—but at least he hadn't asked Tony to tell the world they'd slept together.

After Tony paid the bill, the two walked back to Justin's car in a one sided silence—Tony talking non stop as per usual, and Justin fidgeting with his keys until finally he decided to shut Tony up by grabbing him by the back of the neck and tugging him into for a rough teeth-clattering kiss. Tony shoved Justin back with both hands against the boy's chest.

"Oh come on. I know how the night ends," Justin said, his fingers finding their way to Tony's hips and sliding under his shirt. His hands were cold and clammy. He backed Tony up against the side of his car and, ignoring Tony's attempts to bat him away, started to palm at his crotch.

"Get off," Tony hissed, finding some leverage against Justin's sides and pushing him until the boy staggered backwards. "The only way this night ends is with you alone with your hand. Fuck." He wiped his hand across his mouth, trying and failing to erase the touch of Hammer's lips, but he could feel it lingering like super glue. Talk about feeling diseased.

He set off across the parking lot with no destination except 'away' while Justin called behind him, "What the hell, Stark? This was supposed to be a sure thing! You know it doesn't matter what you do! I can still tell everyone that it happened!"

In his determination to escape, Tony failed to see where he was going and, yet again, bumped straight into Steve's firm, unyielding chest. "Fuck!" Tony exclaimed, taking a step back. "Why are you always here every fucking time?"

Steve frowned. "Every time what?" he asked.

Every time I fuck up. Every time it'd be impossible to impress you. "Never mind," Tony said aloud. "What are you even doing here?"

"I work here." Steve pointed behind them at the now closing Shawarma joint. Most of the lights had been turned off by then, and the few employees it hosted were coming out one by one.

"Of course you do." Tony another step back, needing to get away—to run—more than he'd ever needed anything in his life. He didn't care that he hadn't brought his car, or that he'd have to walk several blocks to get back home, or that it was freezing out and he was already shivering. All he knew was that he couldn't be here, couldn't stay in this parking lot with Justin's yells echoing in his ears, couldn't bear to hear the same from Steve. He could handle all the horny idiots in the world, but he wasn't sure he could handle being propositioned by Steve Rogers—not tonight, possibly not ever. Not like this anyway. He'd dreamed about being with Steve for years, fantasized what it would be like to kiss him—to touch him—but not for a good story, not because Steve thought he was easy or a 'sure thing.'

Before he'd had time to do any more than side step around him, Steve reached out and grabbed Tony's wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Steve's touch was gentle and just loose enough that Tony could easily have slipped out of it if he'd wanted to. He didn't. But the option was nice. He looked up at Steve—at those big blue eyes, open as a book; Tony could see the worry and confusion mixing around in his gaze, and Tony's own anger and panic all began to ebb away. "Let me drive you home," Steve said, and Tony nodded without hesitation.

Maybe it was because Steve knew better than to ask what was wrong, or because there was no ounce of pity in his gaze, let alone anything worse like the lust or hatred or manipulation that Tony was growing so used to seeing in his classmates, or simply because Steve was Steve—the kid that doodled on the corners of all his papers and only kissed Tony's cheek during Seven Minutes in Heaven, and brought soup to his house when Tony was sick last year (and not with Chlamydia, seriously)—but the second Tony slid into Steve's beat up old van of a car, he found himself spilling the whole damn story, from the fake date, to Peter, to everything he'd pretended to have done ever sense.

"I know," Steve said simply once he had finished.

Tony narrowed his eyebrows and squinted at Steve through the darkness of the car. "Who told you?" Damn Peter Parker and his big mouth.

"No one told me." Steve glanced at Tony then—ever the good driver—looked back at the road. "Once upon a time, there was scared dorky little kid who wasn't ready for his first kiss, and an amazing boy who told everyone it happened anyway so the dorky little kid who wouldn't feel like such a well, dork. You know, sometimes I pretend that was really my first kiss." Steve's cheeks turned a bright shade of pink and he stared out at the road with more focus and determination than ever.

"Yeah?" Tony said, grinning slightly. He watched Steve's profile light up under the glow of a street lamp and imagined tracing his fingers over the jaw he'd wanted to kiss since the eighth grade.

Steve nodded. "Yeah."

"And did you come to this realization before or after I started sleeping with the Kardashians, Rogers?" Tony asked, now struggling to keep a straight face.

"Definitely before." Steve pulled up outside of Tony's house (or mansion, more accurately), and stopped the car. "My mom always taught me that it's better to be known—to really, really truly be known—by a few trusted friends or…lover, than to be known by name by the whole world."

"Smart woman, your mother. Where were you two weeks ago?"

"In your corner. I always have been." Steve's lips parted briefly then closed again as his eyes raked over Tony's face, the smallest smile gracing his lips. "Can I kiss you? I promise not to call up the paparazzi after and make it front page news."

Tony laughed. He thought of Hammer's tongue forced down his throat and all the requests that had been made of him over the last couple of weeks, thought of his classmates' laughter and Doctor Banner's disappointing stare. He then focused on the curve of Steve's mouth and the bright almost hopeful glow in his too-blue eyes, how soft his fingers had rested on Tony's wrist. "Yeah," Tony said finally. "Okay."

Steve undid his seatbelt and leaned in close, one hand rising to trace along the side of Tony's face. His touch was feather light, his hands firm and warm, fingers calloused from years of sketching and drawing, no doubt. Slowly, his lips parted—just barely—and it was his eyes, first, that found Tony's lips, before he finally filled the distance between them and pressed his mouth softly against Tony's own.

Four years waiting, and the kiss did not disappoint. Gentle at first then growing increasingly heated as the moment wore on, it was everything Tony had ever dreamed about, and it was over far too quickly. Steve's eyes were still closed as he pulled away, his smile goofy and lopsided, and Tony wanted nothing more than to kiss it all over again.

Instead, he pushed open the passenger door and slid out of the car. "Goodnight Steve," he said.

Steve didn't stop smiling for a second. "Goodnight Tony."


	5. Chapter 5

Tony had always despised the quiet of his house. With his parents away on business more often than they were home and the recent death of his housekeeper, Jarvis, Tony was, most days, the sole inhabitant of the Stark mansion. It was, well, lonely to say the least—the house too open and too big not to be filled with life.

But when Saturday morning rolled around and Steve arrived at his door with a pizza and a good-morning kiss, Tony had never been more grateful in his life to live in an empty home.

Not only did Tony's lack of parents or guardianship give them complete privacy and freedom to spend the day however they wished, but Steve's presence filled the house with more life than Tony's family had in seventeen years. When Howard Stark came home, he drifted to one of two places: the kitchen for a drink or the basement where his workshop was located. Maria, Tony's mother, would either vacate the house once more to see friends and have lunch with important people or would lock herself away in her bedroom. No one spoke, no one smiled, and whether Mr. and Mrs. Stark were home or not made little difference to the deadened feel inside the mansion.

But Steve—Steve was a miracle. He fluttered between each room like he'd found the passage to a new world through every door. He asked questions about every statue, every painting, every bit of overpriced decoration, and seemed endlessly—genuinely—interested, not because of what it was all worth, but because it was Tony's.

Not once did he ask a price, as so many people often did, but, instead, he questioned the history—artists and movements and time periods and locations. His interest in the art was apparent, and Tony had little trouble guessing why; he'd seen Steve's sketches—they were hard to miss when the boy spent 99% of his time doodling in class. Tony would not have been surprised to find himself standing at Steve's art show—at his own gallery—in just a few year's time. Now, if Tony had anything to say about it.

When they reached Tony's room, Steve's eyes widened. He walked the perimeter, his hands rising at every project, finished or not, that Tony had left lying around, as though to reach out and stroke Dum-E's main frame, to touch the pieces of the half-built computer on the floor. But each and every time, before Steve's fingers had more than twitched in there mere vicinity of Tony's work, he dropped his arm again and let it fall respectfully by his side.

Tony could not have stopped smiling if he tried.

Moving so he was standing behind Steve, Tony wrapped his arms around the other boy's chest and rested his chin against his shoulder. "You can touch, you know. I didn't build anything to be that fragile. What do you think I am, an amateur?"

Steve turned in Tony's arms until they were face to face. "No," he said seriously. "I think you're a genius."

Tony kissed him for all he was worth and tried, unsuccessfully he was sure, to express in a single kiss everything he knew he would never be able to say. There were few things in the world that could render Tony Stark speechless, but Steve had found them all.

As Steve lounged across Tony's bed that afternoon, eating pizza and sketching what Tony could only assume was Dum-E (the bot was a more willing subject than Rose for Jack), Tony hacked into Entertainment News' website and posted a story that read: Tony Stark's Leaked Sex Tape, Link Below. The link, (not so) coincidently, led to Tony's own webcam, and though he did eventually join Steve on the bed, a sex tape never did occur. Though, from the look of the several million views they got, it would have been a hit.

So instead of sex, instead of lying, instead of everything that had happened in the last two weeks, Tony told the truth—the real story behind every conquest and party, and for those few minutes, as he bared his soul to the world and denounced every rumor, every fake hook-up, he did something he'd never done before: he took off his mask. In those fleeting moments, he was no longer Tony Stark, the billionaire's son, or Tony Stark the boy genius, or even Tony Stark, that drunk at the party that had his stomach pumped when he was fifteen. As he leaned against Steve's shoulder, eating pizza with his bot whirling around his feet and the whole world watching, he was just Tony, and for once, that meant something more than just a title.

"Now, and not that it's any of your business, but Steve and I have plans, and you're not invited. So you can make it up, and you can tell everyone we spent today having an orgy with a bunch of space monkeys, but it doesn't matter. Because I know the truth. And I know who I am. And if you're still believing everything you read then, well, that's your problem not mine. Have a good life." Tony shot a peace sign at the camera then shut his laptop.

For the first time in years, he felt completely free.

* * *

"I'm competing against amateurs," Tony said for what must have been the hundredth time that afternoon.

"But at least you're not lacking in modesty," Steve whispered back.

Tony rolled his eyes but squeezed his hand just a little tighter, so Steve considered it a win.

The two stood on the sidelines of their district's robotics competition, watching as a dozen little helper bots on wheels darted around the room to complete different tasks under a set time limit. Dr. Banner stood on the other side of the room, watching the events unfold with his arms crossed over his chest and a determinedly unbiased expression on his face. (Steve was quite sure he'd seen the doctor smiling last time Tony's robot took the floor, but some things were best left unsaid).

Steve was no expert on technology, but he was no idiot either, so he didn't need the endless stream of the judge's commentary to tell that Tony's robot was far superior to the rest. Dum-E (Steve had been quite appalled by the name at first, but was quickly growing used to it) was a bit klutzy, sure, but he made up for it with sheer determination. If bots could feel excitement, then Dum-E was bursting with it, rushing back and forth across the gym floor to collect the contest designated items and bring them to the judges with impressive accuracy and speed.

The entire gym was filled with the sounds of wheels, the squeaks of metallic joints, and the cheers of the crowd. It was a technological wonderland, filled with kids he'd rarely had the chance to speak with at school as they walked in such different circles—he in sports and art, and they in science and engineering. It was a shame, really, and one he was determined to alter the first chance he got. His fellow students were some of the brightest teenagers of their age, and he was itching for a pen and paper just to sketch their designs.

Clint Barton caught up with them just as Dum-E was declared the winner. Steve had met him a handful of times, and only spoke with him during half of these, but Clint had the sort of bold personality that was nearly impossible to dislike.

"I'm not here to support you," he said to Tony. "You win every year. It's boring. Last year, you didn't even show up. I'm here because I watched your video, and A) thanks for ditching my competition for a fake date, and b) I don't understand why I wasn't offered a ride on the Tony Stark merry-go-round. I mean—" Clint gestured at his own face so as to highlight his good looks.

Tony grinned. "You're not my type," he said, but before he could elaborate any further, he was called up on stage to accept his award.

Steve watched as Tony shook the judges' hands and smiled for the camera, watched Clint cheer beside him with far more enthusiasm than his previous words had foretold, watched Pepper and Rhodey clap side by side, and Dr. Banner grinning from the sidelines. Steve's heart ached to think that there had ever been a time where Tony questioned this, a time in which he'd felt alone when it now seemed so clear how very much he was loved—how well he was known. For all its fame and grandeur, the name 'Stark' had never been what attracted Steve; before the newspaper articles and the E! News' specials, Steve had seen a bright-eyed kid in over his head, a boy who wore his heart on his sleeve and cared too much, no matter how heard he tried to hide it. He was a bit (okay, a lot) hot-headed, endlessly stubborn, and quite terrible at taking care of himself, sure, but Tony was far more than a Stark, and Steve had never seen anything but Tony. Just Tony.

As his boyfriend stepped down from the stage (and boy, was it nice to finally call him that), Steve beamed at the new trophy in his hand; Tony handed it off to Rhodey and kissed Steve instead.

"That," Tony said, his lips tickling Steve's cheek. "Would make a fantastic magazine cover. Ooh, no. Yearbook cover. Where's Peter when you need him. Pep! Take a picture. What do you think? Front page?"

Steve watched Tony and Pepper argue, and though he was sure he'd need to step in at some point to save his boyfriend from a stiletto to the heart, he knew he would never change a thing.


End file.
